


Unconventional People

by Pipergirl17



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 20:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12516348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pipergirl17/pseuds/Pipergirl17
Summary: Molly Hooper is travelling to Scotland to celebrate the final weekend of the summer before starting her third year of University. On the train, she meets a rather peculiar young man named Sherlock Holmes. Romance isn't on either of their itineraries, but when these two very unconventional people cross paths, their attraction to one another is unavoidable.





	Unconventional People

**Author's Note:**

> My muse was kidnapped by a rather strong plot bunny a few months ago while working on an ongoing fic and, instead of fighting it, she came down with a case of Stockholm Syndrome. I had no choice but to go along with the two of them if I ever wanted to get back to writing the next chapter of my other fic. That being said, writing this was a ton of fun and I hope you all enjoy it. As always, great thanks to Marvel Lit Chick for her help and encouragement.
> 
> Disclaimer: Regrettably, I do not own Sherlock or Molly. I've simply borrowed them for a spot of creative fun.

GLASGOW - DEPARTURE 16:15

Molly Hooper looked up at the schedule posted on the train station’s departure board, then at her watch. _Three forty-five. Early enough to get a good seat if I hurry up._ She pushed her way through the crowded concourse, feeling a lot like one head in a herd of cattle, wondering how people could do this day and night, year after year. 

Her ticket held firmly in hand, she shifted her backpack, readjusting where the strap sat across her shoulder. One corridor and a flight of stairs later, she arrived at the platform where her train was waiting. 

_Platform 9_ , she read, smiling to herself. Casting a quick glance at the crew member monitoring the onboarding passengers, she resisted the urge to stop and ask him for directions to platform 9 ¾. _He's probably sick of hearing that one_ , she mused. 

The young woman walked a short distance towards the end of the train, hopping onto the second-to-last car. Just as she’d expected, many of the seats were still empty; since most commuters fought for seats in the cars that were closer to the concourse doors, the farther train cars usually offered a much better seat selection.

She chose a seat - one of a group of four, with two facing the other two - and dropped her backpack in the seat next to hers. Sighing, she leaned her head against the window and looked out as a group of four women approached her car, laughing as they boarded. They took the stairs to the upper level, their voices carrying loudly enough to still be heard.

It hadn’t been Molly’s intention to travel on her own. Although she’d always been independent - she hadn’t had a choice, once it had been just her and her dad - she’d never been fond of travelling alone. Safety concerns aside, there wasn’t much fun in not having someone to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ with when sightseeing or to share new experiences with.

But Meena had opted to go to Greece with a few other girls from their class, lured by the hot sun, never-ending parties and swarthy men. “Molly,” her friend had said, “I love you dearly, but hanging out in cemeteries and ruins isn’t how I want to spend my last free weekend of the summer.”

Of course the offer had been there for Molly to join them, but as little as Scotland appealed to them, the mere idea of a 3-day party in Greece left her exhausted. So, here she was, on her own on a train to Glasgow. _You’re 20 years old_ , she told herself firmly. _You’re old enough to travel on your own. Who knows, maybe you’ll make a friend_.

More passengers boarded her car but, to her relief, none chose to sit across from her. When the train began to pull away from the station she kicked her shoes off and placed her feet on the seat across from her, mentally high-fiving herself for having scored a section to herself.

As luck would have it, at that very moment, a passenger walked over and plunked down in the seat kitty-corner to hers. _Damn_ , she sulked, pulling her feet back down. Of course she couldn’t be _that_ lucky. 

Curious, Molly glanced over at her new travel companion, ready to offer the greeting polite society expected. A young man, maybe a few years older than her and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, was slouched in the seat, his legs splayed out before him - apparently, he had no qualms about taking up as much room as he wanted. She peeked slyly in his direction, this time from beneath her lashes, noticing his mop of unruly curls, sharp cheekbones and clear blue eyes - eyes which were locked on her, staring at her openly. 

“H-hello,” she stammered, rattled because she’d never been nervous around boys - or men, for that matter. But there was something about the young man that knocked her off balance, that set her pulse racing.

His gaze didn't falter, but he also didn’t acknowledge her greeting. Molly fought the juvenile temptation to stick her tongue out at him and say “stare much?” but managed to resist. Instead, she found her backbone and asked “Why are you staring at me? Have I done something to offend you?”

The man looked up at her in surprise as if he hadn’t noticed her, despite his staring. “ _Dull_ ,” he drawled petulantly, rolling his eyes as if he was a teenager and not a twenty-something man.

“What do you mean by ‘ _dull_ ’?” she asked, mimicking his tone.

“ _You_ ,” he confirmed. “Dull, like the rest of them.”

Molly ignored whom he meant by “them”. She was too busy focusing on the part where he’d insulted her. “How can you judge me without knowing anything about me?” she challenged, her hackles up.

His gaze flit over her and her bags, eyes moving hummingbird-fast, before he sat up straight. “You’re studying medicine at University College London, although you’re bright enough to have been accepted at Cambridge. Why wouldn’t you attend the higher ranked school? Money? Perhaps, but if you’re bright enough and can’t afford it, there are suitable bursaries to make it possible. It must be a loved one holding you back, then - you're not married so it must be a parent. You don’t want to wander far from home, therefore they must be ill. And if you’re needed close to home there must be only one parent…” He made a show of looking her up and down, pressing his lips together as if he’d drunk unsweetened lemonade. “Not your mother - a woman would never allow her daughter to leave the house dressed like _that_. Your father, then.” He smiled, obviously please with himself. “Yes, that's it.”

Molly frowned, unsure if she was hurt, angry or impressed with his deduction. Maybe it was a little bit of all three, she realized as she sorted through her emotions. One thing she knew for sure - she wanted to wipe the smug look off his face. 

“Only partially right,” she countered, turning her nose up and affecting the same arrogant demeanour as him. “My grandmother, not my father, was the one who was ill. Although I did go to UCL for my first two years of Uni, I will be attending Cambridge in my third. And my mother wouldn't have cared what I wear because she decided, when I was ten years old, that she couldn't handle being saddled with motherhood so she left. It's been just me and my dad ever since.”

“Bugger!” The young man muttered to himself. “There's always _something_.”

“Always? What do you mean by that? Do you make a habit of deducing people?” What Molly really wanted to ask was “ _Do you make a habit of being a jerk?_ ” but was sure she already knew the answer to that one. 

“I can't help it,” he replied defensively. “The clues are all there - I simply pay attention and observe.”

“Well, you could always be nicer about how you share your observations, you know.”

He frowned, perplexed. “Why would I be nice? Sentiments are irrelevant - they have no bearing on facts.”

Yes, he was a jerk, but there was something about the young man that piqued Molly’s interest. For some unexplained reason - a pathetic need for companionship, perhaps? - she wanted to get to know him better. 

She held out her hand. “If we're going to argue we might as well be on a first name basis. I'm Molly.”

To her surprise, her companion reached across and accepted her proffered hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“I'll admit - I’m curious. How did you acquire the ability to deduce like that?” she asked him.

His gaze was cool, emotionless. “One doesn't ‘acquire’ the ability to deduce - one already has it, if they simply use their eyes and their brains to observe the world around them. You're in medical school, which means you should be passably intelligent. Give it a try. What can you deduce about me?”

It was a challenge, and Molly was always up for a challenge - especially an intellectual one. Although his face remained impassive his gaze was sharp, as if he was appraising her. She bristled at the thought of being mocked - _I'll give him ‘passably intelligent’_ \- and, resolute, she lifted her chin. 

Molly scanned his appearance. Curly hair, devastatingly good looks, t-shirt, jeans, shoes… none of it telling. Even his backpack was black. How could she deduce anything from _that_?

_When a path of reasoning leads you nowhere, change paths_ , one of her professors always reminded her. 

_Ok, let’s take a step back. How did he deduce me?_ Molly looked at her backpack - where her UCL student card hung from its lanyard. The pin she'd received from Cambridge with her acceptance package stood out brightly against the dark canvas fabric. Like he's said, it was all obvious if one was observant enough. The rest - about staying close to home - he'd used logic to determine. 

“You were also accepted into Cambridge - if you recognize my pin, it means you received one, too, since it was only sent to students accepted by the school. Chemistry major, judging by the molecular structure of marijuana on your t-shirt and the silver nitrate stains on the index and middle fingers of your right hand - you really should invest in better gloves, by the way.”

After that, finding clues and drawing conclusions came easier - Molly wasn't sure if any of what she was saying was accurate or not, but it was a fun exercise nonetheless. 

“Your jeans and shoes are from expensive brands, and judging by the softness of your hands you've never done much - if any - manual labour. Your comportment screams ‘I've always gotten what I want’. All of this points to someone who comes from a family with money. A family,” she added quietly, wondering if what she was about to say was out of bounds, “who loves you greatly enough to support you through your addiction.”

The young man’s head snapped up as he drew in a sharp breath and stared at Molly, obviously taken aback. Maybe she wasn't that far off the mark after all. _Take that, Captain Superiority._

Her satisfaction quickly turned to guilt when Sherlock turned his arms over self-consciously so his scars faced downward. 

“I'm sorry - that was unnecessary,” she apologized. 

“No. Don't apologize. I asked you to deduce me and you did just that. You were simply more observant than I'd expected.”

“What about the rest? Did I get any of it right?”

“You were only partially right,” he replied with a smirk, throwing her own words back at her playfully. “I never applied to Cambridge - I recognized the pin, which I'd seen during a visit to the school. You were correct about me being a chemistry major; however these stains,” he held out his hands, turning them over so she could see the black marks, “aren't from silver nitrate. They’re from wood varnish - I helped my mum stain one of her cabinets yesterday. She's been in one of her redecorating moods lately, taking full advantage of free labour offered by the only child still living at home.”

He didn't say it out loud, but even after knowing him for a short time Molly heard the _boring_ and _tedious_ implied in his tone. She smiled, slowly gleaning that the petulance was just for show (not the arrogance, though - that was legitimate). 

She pulled a bag of sour cream and onion crisps from her backpack, offering him some. “And how many other Holmes children are there?”

Sherlock pulled a few crisps from the packet. “Thanks. Only one more, although his head is swollen enough for two.”

The absurdity of his comment made Molly laugh. “A brother with a bigger ego than yours?” she teased. “Impossible.”

“Very possible. Mycroft is a pompous ass only interested in annoying me and knowing where his next pudding is coming from.”

“Mycroft and Sherlock? Is your mother a writer? Those are very unique names.”

“She _has_ written a book, but it's not what you'd think. Mum was a mathematician and published on the subject. Her book is called The Dynamics of Combustion - it isn’t exactly light reading.”

“And your dad?” Molly asked. “Quantum physicist? Neurosurgeon?” Her tone was light but she was only half-joking.

For some reason, this made the young man laugh. “I'm afraid Dad’s the only normal one in the lot - he's an accountant with an insurance firm. He always introduces himself as the moron in the family, when in fact he deserves a knighthood for putting up with the rest of us. Especially Mycroft, that self-important hippopotamic land mass.”

She knew it was rude to mock others, but Molly couldn't help but laugh out loud at Sherlock’s description of his brother. “Oh, come now - he can't be _that_ bad!”

“ _Please_ ,” he drawled. “He’s intolerable! One time, he feigned illness just so Mum wouldn't make him…” 

The remainder of the train ride passed by quickly, with Sherlock regaling Molly with story after story of his brother Mycroft, each one more absurd than the last. It had been a long time since she’d laughed so much, and she could tell he was enjoying himself as much as she was.

When the train pulled into the station, the young woman felt a twinge of disappointment at having to part ways with her new friend. Despite his unconventional personality, she’d really enjoyed his company. 

The sun was still shining brightly when they stepped outside Glasgow Central Station, the warm late-summer breeze feeling hotter than it really was after hours spent in an artificially cooled environment. If this was what Glasgow had to offer this weekend, Meena could keep Kavos. Anyway, Molly had something her best friend didn't: Sherlock Holmes. 

Fellow commuters hurried around them to find their car in the half-empty car park or to catch a taxi, all eager to reach their destination. One man in an expensive business suit pushed by Molly, a laptop bag in one hand and his phone in the other. “... minimal incremental gains at best - it won't be worth the investment…” he spoke into the earbud speaker, arguing with whomever was on the other end. _Don't they ever stop working?_ the young woman wondered, watching him approach a sporty Audi, still talking as he tossed his bag in the car and hopped in. 

“So, where are you staying?” Molly asked, turning her attention back to Sherlock. It was well past eight o’clock, and the pack of crisps they'd shared was by now long ago digested. Maybe if they weren't staying too far from each other, he'd agree to join her for dinner. Travelling alone was one thing, but eating alone always made her feel like an outcast.

“I've booked a room at a hotel not far from here,” he replied, pulling out his phone to double check. “Campbell's, I believe it's called…”

“Campbell's Guest House? On Hill Street?” _It can't be… I must have misunderstood. Maybe there’s more than one location?_

“Yes. You're familiar with it?” Sherlock lifted his face to look at her, momentarily distracted from his phone. 

“That's where I've booked my room,” she replied, still stunned at the coincidence.

“Brilliant. You can walk with me.” He turned his attention back to his phone, looked up to get his bearings, and started walking. Over his shoulder he called “Do try to keep up. Your legs are significantly shorter than mine and I've had a long day.” 

“I'll try my best,” Molly replied flatly, jogging to catch up with him. 

The walk to the hotel was spent in silence, Sherlock apparently having retreated into himself (or his phone, rather). Molly took advantage of the quiet to look at the city as it passed her by, watching the nineteenth century buildings give way to more contemporary ones as they got farther away from the train station. In that regard - the intricate beauty of history besieged by the cold indifference of modern architecture - Glasgow was no different than many other major European cities. 

A bright green door with a knocker in the shape of an angel with her wings spread caught her eye as she walked by. _Ooh, I've never seen one like that_ , Molly thought, pulling her phone out to take its picture. 

Many people have something that catches their interest above all else - something to study, to collect, to devote time to. Molly’s grandmother had tended meticulously to her traditional English garden, with special attention given to a remarkable collection of peonies; her friend Charlotte was drawn to anything with dragonflies on them - pottery, figurines, even a pair of canvas shoes; and one of Molly’s first-year profs had travelled far and wide to acquire various editions of Gray’s Anatomy, ever in search of an elusive 1858 first edition. 

For Molly, it had always been door knockers. There was something about an item so utilitarian in nature that could just as easily have fulfilled its role as a simple forged ring, but was instead infused with so much detail and personality, that appealed to her. She didn't collect them per se, but had amassed an entire photo album devoted to pictures she'd taken of curious and beautiful ones she'd come across in her travels. She fiddled with the settings on her phone’s camera to account for the bright sunlight reflecting off the metal object, snapping a quick succession of photos until there were a few she was satisfied with.

Although Molly had only been stopped for a brief moment, Sherlock was already far ahead, his long stride quickly eating up the sidewalk. Tossing her phone back in her messenger bag with a curse, she jogged to catch back up with him, the slope of the hill making her calves burn. 

When she finally caught up with her companion - _Damn it_ , she thought, panting, _I should have taken Meena up on her offer to start running with her_ \- Sherlock surprised her by addressing her. 

“Glasgow Cathedral has some ornate door knockers that may appeal to you - most of them perfect examples of Victorian frippery, with cherubs and acanthus leaves and the like.” He sneered, still mostly focused on his phone, his pace never slowing. “I guess if you’re going to believe in an omnipotent mystical being you can have all the ostentation you want to supplement your delusion.”

Before Molly could fully register that he actually had been paying attention to her during their walk - Sherlock stopped, looked up from his phone, then at the street to their right. “Ah, here it is - Garnet. Up this street, then a right and we’re at Campbell’s.”

Molly stared as Sherlock began the trek up Garnet Street, disheartened by its severe incline. _Forget running. I should have taken up mountain climbing._

***

“Can you check again? It’s Hooper - H.. o.. o.. p.. e.. r…” Molly tapped her fingers anxiously on the counter as the clerk checked the computer once again for her reservation. 

“I'm sorry, dear,” the older woman replied sympathetically. “Did you find an email confirmation? If you have one, it will have a confirmation number on it - I’d be able to verify it that way.” 

Molly shook her head, a lead weight settling in the pit of her stomach. She'd scoured her email account twice - inbox, junk mail, travel folder… no email from Campbell's (or any other hotel) anywhere. She thought back to when she'd made the online reservation, her memory not offering any hint of something having gone wrong. “Do you have any availabilities?” she asked, hopeful. 

“I'm afraid we're booked solid. I can move you to the top of our waiting list - if someone cancels, we’ll call you right away.”

“I… I'm not sure what to do.” Molly bit her lip, tamping down the urge to cry. This late in the day, her options were limited - either she could gamble on a last-minute cancellation at Campbell's or she could try calling other hotels for a room. Neither seemed promising, she realized miserably. 

“You could stay with me,” Sherlock offered awkwardly. “If something comes up, you'll be nearby, and if nothing does at least you'll have somewhere to sleep.”

In any other circumstance, Molly would have balked at the offer of sharing a hotel room with a man she'd just met, but she was exhausted and hungry and Sherlock hadn't given her any sign of sexual intentions - or interest, for that matter. 

“Are you sure?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t take the offer back. When he simply nodded, without any derisive comments about her hearing or her intelligence, she knew he was as uncomfortable with the idea of sharing a room as she was. “Thanks,” she replied, relieved.

Once she'd provided her contact info to the clerk in the off chance a room did become free, Molly gathered her backpack and accompanied Sherlock to his room. The hallway they followed was poorly lit, with the occasional sconce giving off the dull glow of a low-watt incandescent bulb. The carpeting and wallpaper were older, most likely dating back to the 1970’s judging by the overabundance of avocado green. It was therefore a pleasant surprise for Molly to enter a room that was bright and recently renovated. 

The room itself wasn’t large, but with a double bed and an ensuite bathroom, it may as well have been a room at the Savoy. Sherlock dropped his backpack against the wall and walked over to the far side of the bed, sitting on its edge and bouncing up and down. “Firm mattress,” he commented, nodding to himself. “It’ll do.”

Molly noticed that the right side - _her_ side, by default - was closer to the door, and wondered whether her companion had done that to make her feel safer or if it was a fluke. She had a feeling, though, that very little Sherlock Holmes did was a fluke. 

“I don’t know about you,” she said, setting her own pack beside his, “but I’m famished. I wonder if there are any pubs in the area?”

“I suppose I should eat something,” he replied, frowning. “It’s been a few days since I've had a proper meal…”

“A few days? That's terrible!”

“It interferes with my thinking process!” The young man replied defensively. “All that…” He waved his hands around, searching for words. “... digestion. It diverts blood to the wrong organ.”

The absurdity of his statement, compounded by fatigue and stress, caused Molly to descend into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Sherlock stared at her nonplussed, seemingly at a loss as to how he should deal with her apparent mental breakdown.

“I'm sorry,” she apologized, finally catching her breath. She straightened up, wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes, and nodded towards the door. “Let's find ourselves a pub; maybe a beer and some food will restore my sanity.”

***

In the end, a beer and some food was _exactly_ what Molly needed to feel more like herself. She and Sherlock had come across a pub with a good live band, and the young woman found her stress melting away with every sip of her glass of Stella.

Her toes tapped in time with the band’s surprisingly good cover of Oasis’s Cigarettes & Alcohol. “I was fifteen when this album came out,” she said, reaching over to steal one of the untouched carrot sticks from Sherlock’s plate of wings. “I knew every word of every song after four days - played it every waking moment. Drove my dad bonkers - he caved in and finally bought me a pair of headphones I’d been begging him for months.” The memory made her smile. “Did you ever have a band you couldn’t get enough of?”

“No. I’ve never been one for contemporary music. I do, however, have every ABBA song indelibly etched onto my mind thanks to Mycroft’s infatuation with them.” He pulled a face before taking a sip of his stout. “If I never have to hear ‘Dancing Queen’ for the rest of my life, it won’t be soon enough.”

Molly threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, but ABBA is the best!” she teased, dancing in her seat and humming the tune to ‘Take a Chance on Me’. 

Sherlock snatched a fry from Molly’s plate, pointing it at her with mock seriousness. “Careful - you may end up sleeping on the floor tonight.”

The levity of the moment temporarily forgotten, Molly frowned. “Where else would I be sleeping? It _is_ your room.”

“Well, not on the floor!” he replied, affronted. “Christ, I'm not _that_ much of a prat.”

“I wasn't implying anything of the sort,” she assured him, surprised at the level of offense he took with what had been a genuinely innocent statement. “It simply makes sense to me, since I'm the one squatting in your room, that I take the floor. I honestly meant nothing more than that.”

Her companion didn't acknowledge what amounted to an apology, but he didn't push the subject further, to her relief. They sat in silence, the band changing covers to music Molly didn't recognize. Thoughts raced through the young woman’s mind as she tried to think of a solution to their sleeping arrangement conundrum. 

“We could share the bed.” Molly felt her cheeks redden as the thought passed through her lips without first being vetted by her brain. Any mortification was quickly replaced by amusement (and a shot of pride, if she was honest with herself) when Sherlock choked on his sip of beer, obviously taken by surprise with her suggestion. 

“What?” he managed to say once he'd stopped coughing. 

People at nearby tables stared at the spectacle they were providing; Molly smiled at them reassuringly, hoping that would redirect their attention back to their own conversations. It worked for the most part, however one man sitting on his own continued to stare unabashedly at them. When her gaze met his he gave her a leering grin, showcasing a mouthful of yellowed crooked teeth. 

“Cross-dresser. Works in a fish processing plant.”

Molly turned her attention back to her companion, who appeared to have gotten over his shock. “How on earth can you tell _that_?” she asked, taking the bait. She knew he was distracting her from the conversation at hand but damn if she wasn't curious anyway.

“Simple, really. He walked by our table earlier and reeked of fish. He's lacking the tan a fisherman would have gotten with the atypically sunny summer Glasgow has seen this year, and his fingernails are trim and clean - more so than you'd expect, given his poor overall hygiene - which would indicate a job in the food industry.”

“Not _that_ ,” Molly laughed. “I can smell him from over here. I meant the cross-dressing.”

“Oh, that. Also simple. When he crossed his legs, his left pant leg rose up high enough for me to see the lace at the cuff of his socks, and he's been surreptitiously sliding a light blue bra strap back up over his shoulder every few minutes.” Sherlock looked at her over the rim of his glass, one corner of his lips pulled up into a smirk, his eyes dancing with mischief. “ _Terrible_ colour for his complexion.”

The young woman covered a snort with her hand, trying to stop herself from causing another scene. Exhaustion was catching up with her, and when she was tired she tended to get the giggles. Since they’d both finished their meals and their drinks, she suggested calling it a night before the situation devolved.

When their server arrived with the bill, Molly insisted on paying despite vehement protest from Sherlock. “You're covering room, the least I can do is cover board,” she argued, glad when he didn’t push further. 

The cool breeze and quiet that greeted them when they stepped out into the night was refreshing. Molly hadn't realized just how stuffy and loud it had been in the small pub, and the fresh air lifted her drowsiness away. 

The two walked side by side back to the hotel, each lost in their own thoughts. With Sherlock, silence wasn't awkward or pregnant, and there was no need to fill it with chatter; he seemed to appreciate the opportunity to retreat back into himself for a bit of a recharge as much as Molly did. 

Compared to the constant buzz of activity in London, Glasgow was quiet. The neighbourhood they walked through was mostly residential, and as they passed houses they heard the muffled sounds of television, music or laughter. Molly’s fingers itched to reach out for Sherlock’s hand - it was very much a hand-holding sort of walk - but thought better of it. _I'd probably scare him out of his skin_ , she thought wryly. Instead, she looked up and was surprised to be able to see stars dotting the dark sky. 

“Look,” she said, pointing upwards. “Little bear is out.”

Sherlock stopped and looked up, frowning. “Little what?” he asked, his brow creased as he strained to see what she was pointing at.

“Little bear,” she repeated. When he continued to stare at her, none the wiser, she clarified. “Ursa Minor. The constellation.”

“Ah,” he replied, understanding. “Astronomy. Entirely irrelevant. What does it matter if the Sun revolves around the Earth?”

Molly stopped walking and stared at him. He was joking, right? Sherlock walked a few paces ahead before realizing she was no longer moving. He turned to look in her direction. “What?”

“Um, the Earth revolves around the Sun, yeah?”

The young man shook his head and waved his hands around. “Sun around the Earth, Earth around the Sun. Who _cares_? It's all rubbish that would take up useful space in here,” he tapped the side of his head with his first and middle fingers, “when there are much more important things to know. Like the composition of distinct soils found throughout London, or a list of the various types of tobacco ash.” 

“Tobacco ash,” Molly repeated, not even trying to suppress her smile. So amused was she by Sherlock's quirks she decided to throw caution to the wind, reaching out to take his hand in hers. 

He stared at their entwined fingers, then back up at her face quizzically, before looking ahead. Even from the side, Molly saw the smile that pulled at his lips before he tugged her hand and started to walk.

****

“How did you envision doing this, again?” Sherlock asked with a detectable measure of trepidation.

He and Molly stood side by side at the foot of the bed; the few feet separating them may as well have been a few miles. It was the first truly awkward moment they'd shared since they'd shaken hands on the train, and it felt _wrong_. Molly already missed their easy camaraderie, their good mood as they'd hopped up the hotel’s steps, laughing at something or other one of them had said. 

When Sherlock had unlocked the door and turned the light on, that good mood had evaporated at the sight of the single full bed - a reminder of their unfinished conversation from earlier.

“Um…” Molly didn't want to admit she hadn't thought any further than ‘ _we can share the bed_ ’. Sherlock was looking to her for a solution and she had an inkling he didn't often cede control. Her pride was on the line. 

“We could…” _Think, damn it, think!_ It was when she contemplated the excessive volume of bedding hotels use ( _who needs a sheet, a duvet and a coverlet in August?_ ) that she had her eureka moment. “We could sleep under different layers of blankets.” 

Sherlock turned his gaze to her, then back to the bed, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. He nodded slowly. “Could work. Yes, definitely a suitable compromise.”

By then, Molly’s eyelids were closing of their own volition. Yawning, she walked over to her backpack and pulled out her pyjamas. “We can toss a coin over who gets to sleep where,” she announced over her shoulder as she made her way to the washroom. “I really don't care as long as my head hits a pillow soon.”

When she came out of the washroom, Molly saw that Sherlock had changed into a t-shirt and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms. Resting against the headboard, his long legs stretched out before him, he held an open book on his lap. He seemed much more at ease with the situation than her, she noted with a twinge of envy. 

Of course, men never had to worry about whether or not they’d shaved their legs or whether their pyjamas were appropriate. While debating whether or not she should keep her bra on or take it off - _off_ , she’d decided sourly, _it’s not like I’ll be bursting out of my top_ \- Molly had thanked her lucky stars she'd left her tatty more-holes-than-fabric Hello Kitty nightshirt at home, packing instead a turquoise t-shirt and short set. 

“Which position would you prefer? On top or bottom?” Sherlock asked before looking up from his book.

“Excuse me?” Molly’s pulse raced at the images playing through her mind like an 8mm reel: two bodies moving together, skin slick with sweat, tongues tasting and teeth nipping, drawing out deep moans... 

“The blankets,” he clarified, smirking knowingly. Of course he’d be able to detect where her thoughts had ventured. “Would you like to sleep on top of the blankets or underneath them?”

“I usually prefer being on top,” Molly replied, deciding she could be cheeky, too.

She met Sherlock’s gaze, held it steadily even when his control slipped and she caught a glimpse of something heated - lust, perhaps? - lurking just beneath the surface. _Sentiments are irrelevant, hmm?_ she mused, her own lips pulling into a smile as wolfish as his. “However,” she continued flippantly, as if nothing had passed between them, “tonight I'll take the bottom.” 

She walked over to her side of the bed and slipped under the covers, curling on her side with her back to him. “You don’t need to turn the lights off if you’re not tired yet,” she told him over her shoulder. “My roommate is a night owl - I’ve learned to fall asleep with the telly blaring.” 

Sleep beckoned and Molly happily submitted, closing her eyes and feeling herself sink into her pillow. The last thing she registered was the deep timbre of Sherlock’s voice. “Goodnight, Molly,” he whispered, flipping a page in his book.

***

The sound of a car alarm blaring just outside the window woke Molly from a deep sleep. As she gradually crawled back towards consciousness, the gossamer threads of the dream she’d been having slipped between her mind’s fingers and she was simply left with a contented feeling. _Why is it I can never remember the good dreams?_

Blinking the sleep from her eyes she looked around her, taking stock of her surroundings: the off-white wall with two framed pictures (‘Macbeth’ and ‘Macduff’, according to the plaques on their frames); the window at the head of the bed, through which bright sunlight was creeping in ( _Need to remember to close the blinds tonight_ ); her backpack, knocked over and spilling its contents over a second backpack.

Hold on. _Second_ backpack? 

Then it all came back to her. Sharing a room. Sharing a _bed_. More precisely, judging by the warmth at her back and the weight of an arm draped across her waist, sharing one _centre_ of a bed. With Sherlock, the young man she’d met on the train less than 24 hours ago. _Meena would be proud_ , she thought, trying to keep panic at bay. 

Deciding to just roll with it Molly lay as still as possible, basking in the comfort and warmth of the accidental embrace, feeling just a little guilty at stealing a moment of selfish pleasure.

When the warm breath that had been tickling the back of her neck halted with a sharp intake, she knew Sherlock was awake. His body went rigid - _Not what he expected either_ , Molly thought - before she felt something else stiffen against the curve of her rear, even with the sheet that separated them. 

Very slowly, Sherlock slid backwards, slipping away from her and putting a safe distance between them. Feeling bereft without the weight of his arm, Molly turned over to lay on her other side, facing him. “Morning,” she said, trying to divert their attention from the elephant in the room.

“Morning,” he replied cautiously. His gaze was unnaturally fixed on hers, as if he was trying very hard to act as if nothing was wrong.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, fighting the urge to reach out and tangle her fingers in his curls. Were they as soft as they appeared? Would he close his eyes and lean into her touch if she gave in to temptation?

“Surprisingly, yes.” His eyes were bright, and appeared more greenish than they had the night before. “I don’t usually sleep well with… in the presence of others.”

She nodded in understanding before tearing her gaze from his. Her eyes - traitorous eyes - travelled downwards, half expecting to find the proof of his arousal tenting the blankets.

“Normal physiological reaction, given the circumstances,” he offered, smiling awkwardly when her eyes shot back up guiltily to his. Despite the nonchalance of his words, his cheeks were tinged with pink. “Although, that doesn’t make it less mortifying. I am sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

“It’s ok,” Molly reassured him, really meaning it. “You’re being the perfect gentleman.” She shifted, realising just how much she had to pee. “If you want, I can go have a shower and give you, um, a bit of privacy?” 

Sherlock sighed and dragged one hand down his face before turning over onto his back. “Yes, I don’t suppose I’ll be able to simply will this one away, unfortunately.”

Purposefully avoiding staring at their topic of conversation, Molly slipped out of bed and randomly pulled clothing and a towel out of her backpack before slipping into the bathroom. She closed the door behind her, leaning back against its hard surface, and hugged her clothes to her chest, nearly hyperventilating at the thought of what would be happening just a few feet away.

Even the comforting steam of a hot shower wasn’t enough to distract her. As she stood under the spray, letting the water pelt her skin, she couldn’t help but wonder whether a cold shower would have been a better idea.

***

By the time Molly was out of the bathroom, Sherlock had already dressed and made the bed. He’d put on the same pair of jeans he’d worn the previous day, but had swapped his chemistry t-shirt for a plain dark grey one. 

“No funny shirt, this time?” Molly quipped, folding her pyjamas so she could place them on the foot of the bed.

“Unfortunately not. I left my Schrödinger’s cat shirt - my only other ‘funny’ shirt - at home.”

“Schrödinger’s cat shirt?”

He turned to her, eyes dancing. They looked blue again, she noticed, and Molly had to tamp down the butterflies in her stomach. 

“It has an American Western-style poster with ‘Wanted Dead and Alive: Schrödinger’s Cat’ on it.” He smiled self-consciously. “Mum got it for me for Christmas last year.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant!” she laughed. “I'd love a shirt like that - I wrote a report on Schrödinger’s paradox in year 11.”

“Really?” He seemed surprised at this, although he'd never questioned her intelligence thus far. “You were interested in quantum theory in year 11?”

Molly couldn't help but blush as she admitted the true interest behind her assignment. “Actually, I first became interested in it because I thought it was terrible, what he'd done to that poor cat.” She paused when he gave her an incredulous stare. “Yes, yes. _Then_ I found out it was a thought experiment, but I stuck with the subject and ended up earning an A on it.”

“Commendable,” he said, impressed. 

Molly blushed again, this time for the praise. “Thanks. Are you hungry? I was thinking we could grab a quick breakfast before heading out.”

Sherlock stopped mid-stride as he walked towards his backpack. “We ate late last night. You can't _possibly_ be hungry already?”

“I'm sorry, I can't go days without eating like you can. And it's been almost eleven hours since dinner - I don't think it's unreasonable to feel a bit peckish.” She paused when she noticed that Sherlock was staring at her oddly, barely able to hold back a smirk. To her horror, Molly realized she'd been waving the hand still holding her underpants at him as she’d been ranting. Quickly, she hid the garment - white with little red hearts - behind her back. “I guess it's my turn to be mortified,” she joked weakly. 

“Nonsense,” he replied. 

Molly might have believed him if it hadn't been for the poorly veiled amusement written clear across his face. 

Instead, she let out an indignant humph and walked over to her backpack to shove the panties into her dirty laundry bag. 

“Alright, then, breakfast first and adventuring next?” 

Molly recognized an olive branch when she saw one. “That would be lovely,” she agreed, hefting her messenger bag over her head and across her chest. 

Sherlock held the door open for her and she walked out into the hallway. “So,” she asked as they made their way down to the dining room, “what sort of adventures do you have planned?”

“I read there’s a fascinating exhibition on the evolution of forensic science at Kelvingrove,” he replied. “I was thinking it might be worth a gander. What do you say?”

“Ooh!” Molly replied keenly, hooking her arm in his. “That sounds like a brilliant plan.”

***

Being with Sherlock Holmes was unlike anything Molly had ever experienced. They could be in the middle of a conversation and he would go quiet, disappearing into his mind only to come back to where they’d left off fifteen or twenty minutes later; he would go from being a perfect gentleman to insulting her in the same sentence (granted, they were often backhanded compliments intended, in his own special way, to be flattering); he could deduce a stranger’s life story just by observing a bit of mud on the hem of their pants or a scuff on their briefcase, yet he didn’t know the simplest of truths (such as the earth revolving around the sun).

Yet none of it - well, nothing aside from the insults - impacted her enjoyment of their time together. She just “rolled with it”, as her father used to say, accepting the young man’s idiosyncrasies. Therein lay Molly Hooper’s strength: finding the good in a person and focusing on those qualities.

They had walked the short distance to the museum through Kelvingrove Park. Once again, Mother Nature had provided them with a hot and sunny day, and their stroll through the small wooded enclave had been lovely. Sherlock had asked Molly about her mother, her father and what it was like being a single child. 

“I have a brother I no longer need,” he offered. “I'd be willing to give him to you at no cost, even.”

Molly's resulting laugh startled a runner who was passing by, causing the man to misstep and nearly trip. He threw her a dirty look over his shoulder as he continued on his way, much to the amusement of the two young people. 

When they reached the museum they made a beeline to the forensics exhibit. There, they spent a few hours poring over every instrument and tool, every detailed display, every “Did you know?” and article that accompanied images of pioneers and innovators in the field of forensics. 

“I believe I’ve just found my calling,” Molly announced, standing in front of a feature on Dr. Joseph Bell. 

Sherlock came up behind her, scanning the text from over her head. “Forensic pathology, hmm? Do you think you can manage working with the dead?”

“Well,” Molly deadpanned, “they certainly complain a lot less than the living do.”

When they’d gone over the exhibit to the point of being able to conduct tours themselves, Molly succeeded in convincing Sherlock to visit the planetarium. Despite her own enthusiasm for the subject, and the interactive nature of the centre, Sherlock only reluctantly paid attention and declared his intent to delete what little information he had acquired as soon as he had “a quiet moment to think”. 

Sherlock, for his part, surprised Molly by taking her shyly by the hand and leading her to the museum’s Environmental Discovery Centre, where its famous beehive is kept. He confessed to having a passionate interest in the insects and animatedly shared his knowledge with her. “They really are amazing creatures,” he said, with almost childlike wonder. “As they age, the role that honeybees play in the hive changes - and, as a result, so does their brain chemistry. It’s all very fascinating.”

Later, when they were standing in line at the museum’s café, Molly asked him why he didn't start a hive of his own, given his interest. 

“You're the only one I've ever told,” he admitted. “No one else knows. I've always thought I might keep bees after I retire - maybe buy a small cottage in Sussex, try my hand with a few hives.”

“That sounds lovely.” Molly replied, imagining Sherlock forty years from then, the hair at his temples greyed, his back slightly hunched from age, a pair of glasses resting on the tip of his nose as he inspected his bees’ honeycombs. She smiled, the image suffusing her with warmth. 

They quickly ate a light lunch and passed through the museum’s East Court as they wended their way towards the exit. Although the pair hadn't agreed on much outside of the forensics exhibit, they were both of the same opinion that the Floating Emotions exhibit - a collection of heads hanging from the ceiling - wasn't to their taste. 

“They're creepy,” Molly said with a shudder. She pointed to one in particular that caught her attention. “Look at that one - he looks like he's in rigor mortis.” When the exit came into view, it was none too soon.

It was still bright and sunny outside but wispy clouds now peppered the sky and the wind had picked up. The sidewalks and streets were busier than they'd been that morning - and very much busier than they'd been the night before - and Molly found she had little patience left for the hustle and bustle.

“Is there anywhere else you want to go?” Sherlock asked as they walked along. 

“No. I'm knackered - I just need a bit of a reboot before going anywhere else.” She looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. “Don't let that stop you if you want to go somewhere, though. I can go back to the hotel on my own.”

“We can go back to the hotel. A ‘reboot’, as you call it, would be welcome - I have a lot of new information I need to sort through and organize before I store it in my mind palace.”

“Like star systems?” Molly teased. 

“I've already told you, that's getting deleted. What importance is it to me that Neptune is primarily composed of hydrogen, or that Venus takes 224.7 days to orbit the moon, or that Jupiter has the most moons at 63?”

Molly let slide the fact that Sherlock had been paying much more attention to the display than he’d let on. “You never know - you might get mugged by a deranged former astronomer.”

Sherlock turned and looked at her as if she'd grown an extra head. “That’s the most ludicrous thing I've ever heard.”

Molly's smart ass reply died on her lips as Campbell Guest House came into view. “Oh, thank goodness. Here we are.”

As soon as they were back in their room, Molly shuffled over to her side of the bed and let herself fall backwards onto its soft surface with a relieved groan. “Ugh. My feet feel like baked potatoes.”

Sherlock walked around to the other side of the bed, settling himself down beside her. They lay shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite ways, each lost in thought, the sounds of the outside world drifting in through the window on a gentle breeze. 

The bed shifted and Molly turned her head to find Sherlock watching her solemnly. His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth and back again. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, her heart racing in anticipation. 

She almost groaned in frustration when he turned away, rising off the bed. _Damn it, Molls_ , she told herself, closing her eyes, _stop letting your imagination run wild_. It came as a complete surprise, then, when she felt him lift her feet and gently remove her shoes.

“You're exhausted,” the young man said, quietly. “Take a nap - we can wait a bit before we head out again.”

“Ok,” she acquiesced, moving so she lay properly on the bed. “Just a short one, though.” Sleep overtook her so quickly that she didn't even register his reply.

***

“Molly… Come on, Molly - time to get up.”

Groggy, Molly slowly opened her eyes, blinking away sleep. As consciousness came back to her she noticed the shadows in the room were much longer than when she’d lain down. 

“What time is it?” she asked, stretching.

“Just after six.” 

“What?” She quickly sat up, scowling at Sherlock. “You let me sleep for two hours?”

“You looked peaceful,” he replied defensively. “I didn't want to disturb you. And apparently you needed it because you slept like the dead.”

Molly looked over at where the young man sat and noticed he had an assortment of travel brochures strewn across his lap and spilling over onto the bed. He must have left the room at some point to collect them from the display in the reception area, and she'd slept through his comings and goings (or, in this case, goings and comings).

Maybe she had been more tired than she'd realized. Nodding at the pamphlets, she leaned forward and asked him “Find anything interesting for us to do?”

His gaze on her was intense and she wondered if he'd even heard her question. He stared at her unabashedly, his blue eyes devouring her with an intensity she hadn't yet seen from him. 

“What?” she asked self-consciously. “Do I have drool dried at the corner of my mouth?” She wiped at her face but didn't feel anything. _Oh my god_ , she panicked, _my hair must be a mess!_

Molly reached up to flatten what she imagined was a rat’s nest when Sherlock reached out and gently placed his hand on her forearm, pushing it back downwards. 

“Don't. There's nothing wrong,” he said, obviously uncomfortable. “Quite the contrary. You're looking very…” He frowned, and Molly could tell he was searching for his words. “Lovely.”

The word rolled off of his tongue awkwardly, as if he'd never used the word before - especially not directed at a girl - but the look on his face told Molly he'd meant it. 

“Thanks,” she whispered. Heart pounding in her chest she leaned forward, closing the gap between them. Her eyes flit to his mouth and watched as his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. The temptation to follow the same path with the pad of her thumb was strong; instead, she gripped the corner of her pillow firmly to steady herself.

She was close enough to feel his warm breath fan against her skin when he whispered “Necropolis.”

“What?” she asked, frowning. 

“The Glasgow Necropolis. You asked if there was somewhere I'd found for us to visit.”

Disappointed, and more than a little frustrated, Molly pulled back. It was a small victory to note the tremor in his hand as he handed her a small pamphlet - proof he wasn't unaffected by whatever was developing between them, although for the life of her she couldn't understand why he didn't just act on it.

She took the paper, resisting the urge to crumple it up and toss it at him, and glanced at it. Her irritation faded as she read. “I remember this,” she said. “This was on my to-do list but I'd forgotten about it.”

“We still have time to go, if you want. According to Google Maps it's a half hour walk, though - are you up to it, or should we take a taxi?”

Molly turned to sit at the edge of the bed and looked down at her shoes. She slipped them on and found, to her great relief, that her feet didn't protest. “I’ll be good to walk - I think the rest helped a lot. We can flag a taxi on our way back if my feet tell me otherwise.”

The bed shifted behind her as Sherlock stood up. He walked over to the door and held his hand out for her. “Shall we, then? I also looked restaurants located on the way. It’s been a few hours since you last ate - I’m guessing you’re most likely hungry again.”

His thoughtfulness caused a warm feeling to spread throughout her, and Molly forgot all about her fatigue and frustration. She stood up and walked over to him, smiling and accepting his hand. Just as they were about to leave, she stretched on her tiptoes and gave in to temptation, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth. “Let's go,” she said, opening the door.

***

The Glasgow Necropolis was big. 

_Scratch that_ , Molly thought. The Glasgow Necropolis was _huge_.

She’d read about it, and Sherlock had shown it to her on the map he'd pulled up on his phone, but nothing could have prepared her for the magnitude of the old cemetery. 

Standing at its entrance, Molly looked up at the rows of headstones and mausoleums layered one above the other as the cemetery stretched upwards and onwards. Its paths lay before them, a maze of endless possibilities.

“Where to begin?” Sherlock asked, a hitch in his voice. He almost sounded as awed as Molly was. 

The young woman scanned their surroundings, trying to decide which way to turn. Everywhere she turned, something caught her eye, whether it was a weeping angel, a decrepit mausoleum or late-blooming roses clinging to a stone wall. There was no shortage of beauty, no lack of opportunities for taking pictures. 

In the end, the deciding factor was a large group of tourists making its way up the far path. “Let’s go this way,” she said, nodding to their left. “It'll be quieter.”

Sherlock cast a quick glance at the small crowd, among whom was a father with a screaming child hoisted over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Good call,” he replied, pivoting on his heel in the direction Molly had suggested. 

They wandered through the grounds, never straying far from each other's sight even if their interests were captivated by different features among the statues and markers. 

It was as she was trying to read the epitaph on a tombstone with a carving of a mother surrounded by children that Molly realised the light had changed considerably. She looked up and noticed that the wispy clouds from earlier had given way to heavy, low-hanging cumulonimbus storm clouds. 

“Sherlock?” she called out, scanning her surroundings but not spotting him anywhere. She straightened from her crouched position, stretching the kinks from her back, and called again. This time, she heard a muffled reply from behind a nearby sarcophagus.

A mop of curls appeared from behind the large stone coffin as Sherlock stood up. He walked over to her, his long limbs taking him to her side in no time. “Come, look,” he said animatedly, taking her hand and dragging her to the other side, where he pointed to a faded inscription on a smaller tomb stone:

In loving memory of  
Duncan Maceachern  
Beloved father and grandfather  
Who died in his 76th year on 26 August 1885  
Always in our thoughts  
Forever in our hearts

“Do you know him?” Molly asked, taking a step back from the marker.

“No,” Sherlock replied, frowning.

“Oh.” Molly looked at the inscription again, trying to figure out what had excited him to the extent of dragging her to see it. “Is it because it’s old?”

“What? No! Can’t you see why it’s so unusual?” 

When all he got was a clueless shoulder hunch, he let out a dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes. “ _Obviously_ this sarcophagus is made from Portland stone. But Portland stone was mostly used in England and Ireland in the construction of important buildings such as the Tower of London, St. Paul’s Cathedral and the British Museum - it’s not known to have been used much in Scotland, nevermind for tombs of men who don’t appear to have been famous or even wealthy.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “It’s like a mystery begging to be solved.”

“Well, this is one mystery that’s going to have to wait,” Molly replied, looking once again at the darkening skies, “because it looks like it's just about to rain.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” he scoffed dismissively. “The presence of a few low-hanging clouds are not a sure sign that it's going to r…”

As if on cue, the heavens opened up and let forth a torrential downpour, effectively proving Sherlock dead wrong. Molly laughed at the stunned look on his face, squealing when the rain fell even harder. 

She reached for his hand, pulling him back towards the path. “We need to find shelter!” she yelled over the din of the rain. 

Sherlock swept the hair from his eyes, scanning their surroundings. “This way,” he said, tugging her away from the path, towards a cluster of mausoleums.

“Oh, no,” Molly protested, stopping a few feet from one of the stone buildings. “I am _not_ standing under there!” 

“Why not?” the young man yelled back from the shelter of an overhang. “Come here - you're getting soaked!”

Despite the discomfort of her wet clothes Molly stood her ground, eyeing the mausoleum uncertainly. Long-abandoned, the crypt had fallen into disrepair; many of the marble tiles had fallen off, giving it a patchwork appearance, its door balanced precariously on one hinge, and gnarled vines crept up the side.

A loud clap of thunder made her jump; suddenly the crypt was the safer option, and she ran over to Sherlock’s side. 

“Silly girl,” he chided, sweeping her hair from her face. “You're not afraid of the bogeyman, are you?”

“No…” she half-lied. She'd never been told about the bogeyman when she was little, but she'd always been uneasy about dark, scary places. Thunder boomed again. Instinctively, Molly pressed herself against Sherlock, closing her eyes.

His strong arms wrapped around her shoulders, and she felt herself relax in the safety and warmth they offered. When she looked up, she found him watching her, his head cocked to the side as if she was a mystery he was trying to solve. 

“Fuck it,” he eventually muttered before leaning down and pressing his lips to hers. Stunned at first, Molly quickly snapped out of it; she moaned and melted against him, returning the kiss passionately. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tilting her head back and opening her mouth to him.

Sherlock made a noise at the back of his throat, lustful and needy and primal, and spun them around so Molly’s back was sandwiched between him and the mausoleum.

The velvety slide of his tongue against hers, the contrast of the cold marble wall and his feverishly warm body, the feel of his arousal pressing into her hip - Molly’s head swam with the sensations assaulting her all at once. At that moment, there was no rain, no thunder, no soaked clothes, only her desire for Sherlock Holmes.

Reluctantly pulling back for a much-needed breath, Molly noticed the rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and spots of blue sky were already trying to peek through the clouds. 

The downpour brought cooler temperatures, and Molly was now starting to feel a chill through her wet clothing, despite the heat that coursed through her. “Maybe we should head back to the hotel,” she said.

Sherlock stared at her soberly and then nodded. Hand in hand they walked back to the path and began to make their way back towards the entrance. As they walked by, the tour group they'd avoided earlier was coming back off their bus, having also been caught in the rain. The little girl who had been in the midst of a tantrum now stood quietly, her sundress and pigtails hanging limply. 

“Nothing like a near-drowning to calm a child down,” her companion commented as they reached the street. 

“Sherlock,” Molly chided. “Can you imagine how boring it must be for a child her age to be dragged from place to place, hopping on and off a bus to visit places like cemeteries?”

“I would have loved to visit the necropolis at her age.”

“Me too,” the young woman conceded, “but I think we've already established that neither one of us has very conventional interests.”

“Well, then, it's a good thing we've found each other,” he replied, squeezing her hand. 

***

In the end, they walked the three and a half kilometres back to their hotel, knowing full well any cabbie in his right mind wouldn't pick up two soaked fares. 

When they got within sight of their hotel, Molly - and her tired, aching feet - almost sagged in relief. The thought of finally divesting herself of her shoes and damp clothes, however, led to the realisation of what else would happen once she and Sherlock were behind locked doors. 

She was pretty certain the same thoughts were weighing heavily on Sherlock's mind, because he'd retreated into himself almost immediately after they'd left the necropolis. She'd felt his eyes on her often during their walk, but every time she looked over his gaze was aimed straight ahead. 

When they arrived at their room, a very distracted Sherlock walked in first. Molly locked the door, fingers trembling as they turned the deadbolt and slid the chain lock into place. She remained rooted in place, focused on a chip in the paint beside the peephole, looking at the mint green peeking out from beneath the new tan coat. _No wonder they repainted it - it would have been like sleeping in a hospital_.

She turned around, her gaze falling on Sherlock who stood stock still in the centre of the room. His eyes were on her, crystal blue and as sharp as ever, but there was a shyness beneath it all that lent him a note of vulnerability.

The breeze that blew in through the window, with the accompanying rumble of far-off thunder, reminded her of a more pressing matter.

“We're going to have to take these wet clothes off,” she said, tugging at the shirt that clung to her like a clammy second skin. Immediately she realized how ridiculous her comment had sounded. Grimacing, she added “Ok, that sounded like a line from a bad porn film. But we really do need to take them off or we'll both end up with colds.”

Her heart hammering in her chest, Molly reached down and took hold of her shirt’s hem, wrestling the wet garment over her head. She stood facing Sherlock in her bra and shorts, feeling as bare as if she’d removed all her clothing. 

The young man remained silent, not registering her attempt at humour. God, she wished he'd say something, _anything_ , so she knew what was going on in his mind; he eventually peeled his own shirt off, which told he'd heard her even if he hadn't given her any sign of having done so.

She took a few steps to bridge the gap that separated them and placed a hand on his cheek. The contact drew Sherlock from wherever his mind had wandered and he looked down at her as if he'd just noticed her presence. He wrapped his arms loosely around her, his hands on her back, fingers splayed possessively. His skin was warm despite the chill coming in on the breeze and Molly pressed herself closer to him to steal some of his heat. 

Closing his eyes, Sherlock leaned in and touched his forehead to hers. He took a deep breath - in through the nose, out through the mouth - once, twice. With each exhale Molly felt his tension loosen beneath her touch, his posture relaxing, the fingertips now at her hips gripping less tightly. 

“I've never done this sober,” he confessed, his deep voice barely a whisper. 

Molly couldn't help but smile. “I think - I _know_ \- you'll figure it out.” She stretched up and placed a kiss on his temple, then his cheekbone, followed by one to the corner of his mouth. When she moved to kiss the other side he turned to meet her lips with his. 

Molly lost herself in the embrace, the primal need behind Sherlock's kisses making her shiver with a responding desire. Her hands flew to the fly of his jeans, and after a surprisingly brief struggle she'd popped the buttons and pushed them halfway down his thighs. “Bed!” she commanded in between kisses. 

Sherlock shuffled backwards, his movements limited by his trousers, Molly following close behind. When they reached the bed he fell back into the mattress, staring up at her, his gaze heavy and expectant. “Show me,” he said, his voice rough as if he hadn't used it in days. 

Her pulse hammered in her ears like the bass at a dance club, a rhythmic _thump, thump, thump_ that drowned out all noise except for the beating of her heart. Molly looked down at Sherlock, who stared up expectantly at her. His eyes followed her tongue as it moistened her lips, their blue growing a shade darker. 

“Slide your pants down.” This request came out meeker than the previous one, and what she was about to do was finally dawning on Molly. When Sherlock’s underwear joined his jeans, freeing his cock to stand proudly at attention, her knees weakened. 

“I'm not usually like this,” she said, the apparent non-sequitur causing him to frown in confusion. “What I'm trying to say is I don't usually sleep with boys - I mean men - I've only just met. I… I wanted you to know before we go through with this.”

“Molly,” he answered, “that’s not how I see you. This is… unusual for both of us.” He sat up and pushed his clothes the rest of the way down his legs, kicking them off to the side, before sliding under the blankets.

Molly felt herself blush under the weight of Sherlock’s gaze as she removed her remaining clothing and slid in to join him under the covers. She lay on her side, mirroring him as they had been just that morning (which felt like _years_ ago, at this point), and met his gaze.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, reading her sudden quiet demeanour as an about-face.

“Very much so,” she replied. “It’s just that when you move past the frantic ‘I need to get into your pants now’ phase and actually make it into someone’s pants it’s, well, serious.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes self-consciously. “I’m not making any sense, am I?”

“That makes a lot of sense.” Sherlock lifted an unsteady hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I believe,” he said, slowly bridging the gap between them, “I’m going to enjoy this much more sober.”

The embrace started gently, their lips softly brushing together, hands still shy in their exploration, but quickly caught fire as timidity gave way to lust. Molly hooked her leg over Sherlock’s hip, pulling him flush against her and feeling the firmness of his desire at her centre.

Sherlock groaned, rocking against her. His mouth traveled down her jawline to her neck and across her collarbone, his slender fingers tracing the curves of her back. Her skin caught fire wherever he touched it, and his ministrations soon became more than she could handle. 

It was time to turn the tables.

With a twist of her hips, and with surprise on her side, Molly flipped Sherlock onto his back, straddling him. He looked up at her, his gaze dark and unfocused. When she began to move, grinding down against him, his hands flew to her hips to stop her. 

“Molly,” the young man groaned. “I take it back - I don't think I can do this sober.”

“Nonsense,” she assured him. “Of course you can.” She leaned forward, holding herself above him, her hands on either side of his head, her hair cascading down around them like a veil. “We can simply take it as slow as you need.”

Very slowly, she pressed her lips to his, careful to rein in the intensity of her desire. The kiss was languid, unhurried, almost chaste. Gradually she felt the tension leave Sherlock once again; his hands left the safety of her hips, wandering down to cup her ass, holding her in place as he pressed up against her. 

The sensation drew a whimper out of Molly, causing him to repeat the motion. She fell to her forearms, wanting to be even closer to him. “Oh, Sherlock,” she moaned, tracing the shell of his ear with her tongue. She almost cried out in relief when he whispered “Now, _please_ ,” in her ear. 

With another - very different from the first - twist of her hips, Molly sank down on his cock, slowly taking him inside her in the most intimate of ways. Sherlock stared up at her, his expression unguarded, his lips parted in mute wonder.

The look quickly changed to something closer to lust once Molly began to move, tentatively at first, then with more confidence once they'd found their rhythm. They moved in unison, the din of the street outside fading to a distant background noise. 

Inside the small room, the only sounds to be heard were the lovers’ gentle moans and the squeak of the bed beneath them. Molly wanted the moment to last forever, wanted to feel the strength of Sherlock's arms around her, the play of his fingers on her skin, the heat of his mouth as he kissed a trail down to her breasts, but she'd been too aroused for too long to hold her climax off for much longer. 

When she felt the telltale stirrings of an orgasm building, accelerated by each upward thrust of Sherlock’s hips, Molly ground down against him harder, her breaths coming out in short pants. Despite his inexperience, Sherlock caught on, increasing his tempo and whispering in her ear. 

“Come on, Molly,” he said, his voice roughened with desire. “Let go, for me.” He kissed her frantically, passionately, his long fingers tangled in the hair at the base of her skull. 

Molly held back a cry as she came, somehow still aware of the open window and the adjacent rooms. Her heart still racing, her nerves on fire, she came back down from her high to find Sherlock staring up at her, his pupils blown wide with desire. 

“My turn,” he growled, flipping them over so he lay above her, holding himself up on shaking arms with barely restrained lust. He began to move, then, slowly at first but with an increasing tempo as he chased his own climax.

Molly wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, holding him tightly as his rhythm began to waver and he came apart, her name a choked prayer on his lips.

***

Eventually Sherlock rolled over onto his back beside Molly, still working on catching his breath. 

“What was that, twenty-seven hours? Twenty-eight?” she asked, her own chest still rising from exertion. 

“Hold on,” Sherlock said, blindly reaching over the edge of the bed and pulling his phone from his jeans. “Our train left at quarter after four yesterday, it's now ten forty four… that's just over thirty hours. That's definitely a new record.”

“Mmm…” Molly stretched, rolling over to lay her head on Sherlock’s chest. “Good for us. What was our previous record?”

“I believe it was the Egyptologist and graduate student at twenty one hours.”

“And most of that was spent with me gawking at all the sights in Cairo. We hardly even had a chance at privacy until well into the game.”

“Still, we fared much better than when we played headmaster and student.” Sherlock threw her a heated glance. “I believe we lasted thirty nine minutes for that one.”

Molly pouted. “It's not my fault you look so sexy in glasses. Anyway, who knew all it would take would be for us to play ourselves - albeit twenty-ish years younger?”

“Indeed,” he agreed, “although I must admit I cheated.”

Distracted by the finger he was running up and down her spine - she doubted he was even aware of it - Molly simply replied “Hmm?”

“If I acted the perfect part of myself at twenty two, not only would twenty year old Molly Hooper want nothing to do with me, I may also have lost thirty-nine year old Molly.”

Molly opened her mouth to protest - after all, he _had_ been a prick when they'd first met, and for the longest time after that, yet she'd still loved him - but Sherlock placed a finger over her lips. “Remember - I was just out of school, aimless with no clear goal in life. My arrogance, my manipulating, my intelligence - I used it all to get my next hit and to lord my superiority over my peers. And seeing as I'm still an arrogant ass, that's saying a lot.”

“I'm glad you changed for the better,” Molly whispered, raising herself up on one elbow and leaning in to kiss him. They shared a brief passionate exchange before she pulled back. 

“What about you?” he asked, a lazy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Did I get to meet the real Molly Hooper from twenty years ago?”

Molly laughed, sinking back against him. “Are you kidding? You do remember I couldn't string two words together for the first how many years we worked together, don't you? If I didn't step out of character and take the lead the game would have ended on the train - I would have stuck my nose in a book and avoided you after you called me dull.”

“Mmm, yes, I can see how that was a possibility.”

They both fell quiet, Molly listening to Sherlock’s heartbeat where her head lay on his chest. A cool breeze was still blowing in through the open window, ruffling the curtain on its way through and making her shiver.

“I really managed to get into character this time,” she said. “I'd even made up a story in my mind about school chums going to Greece instead of coming with me to Scotland. It made it a lot easier to keep to the storyline. Did you find yourself doing that, too?”

“Not intentionally, no, although it may explain how I managed to keep my hands to myself for a whole day. Speaking of storyline, have you given any thought to our next adventure?” Sherlock asked, pulling the blankets over her shoulders to keep her warm. His voice was quiet, as if he didn't want to disturb the serenity of the moment. 

“I may have,” she replied playfully.

The sweep of his finger on her back paused. “Molly…” he said, his voice like liquid velvet. She'd made the mistake once - in the throes of a passionate moment, so she really couldn't be faulted - of confessing just how much the timbre of his voice affected her, and he'd made a point of shamelessly using it as leverage whenever he wanted something from her. “What do you have planned?”

“You don't need to turn up your mojo,” she said breathlessly. “I was going to tell you once I had all the details ironed out. I'm still waiting to hear back from Mycroft.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice rose, tinted with a shade of horror. “You've involved _Mycroft_ in our… relationship?” 

“Our sex life, Sherlock. We do it often enough that you should be able to say it. And yes, I did tell him why I needed his assistance.” She bit her lip, trying to hold back a smile, glad she was facing away from him. “He said he wouldn’t help me otherwise - he… he demanded I tell him everything, in full technicolour. _All_ of it.”

Sherlock went still - he’d even stopped breathing - his hand splayed against her back, fingers flexing, every one of his muscles rigid.

Unable to carry on her ruse, Molly let out the guffaw she’d been holding in. Her laughter turned into a squeal when he rolled them over, holding himself above her. His eyes twinkled with good humour, the corners of his mouth pulled up into an easy smile. “Molly Hooper,” he rumbled, “you’re a tricksy one. You actually had me going.” He nuzzled the side of her neck, placing open-mouthed kisses until she let out a low moan. “What did you really tell him?”

Did he actually expect her to speak in complete sentences while he did that? “Um… He… Oh, I can’t think while you do that, Sherlock. You know it drives me crazy.” When he relented, pulling back enough to look at her, she explained. “I approached him, asking for his help in devising a case we could act out - something that wouldn’t last more than a day or two. He caught on right away, and told me he would help as long as I didn’t give him any details, that he preferred not to have _those_ images imprinted in his mind to his dying day.”

“Now, that’s more like the Mycroft we all know and barely tolerate. And he calls _me_ a drama queen,” he said, suddenly distracted by her shoulder. He leaned in, nipping at it playfully. “No more talk of Mycroft. He really does kill the mood.”

Molly reached between them, sliding her hand up and down his semi-erect cock. “What about this - is this better?” 

“ _Loads_ ,” he replied, exhaling deeply and resting his forehead at the crook where her neck and shoulder met. He moved his hips, pumping into her fist, groaning deeply. “Have I mentioned how much I enjoy it when you do that?”

“Hmm… I think you may have, a few times.” Her casual tone belied her racing pulse and the heat that pooled in her belly in anticipation of being filled with him again in such a short time. _Enough teasing_ , she decided, directing him to her entrance.

They both sighed as he entered her. This time their coupling was unhurried, their kisses as languid as their movements. 

It was in moments like these where Molly felt like the luckiest person in the world because with her, Sherlock Holmes shared a side of himself few others ever got to see. Patient, gentle, loving - once he'd learned his heart was safe in her hands, he'd let her help him tear down the last of his walls. 

As if he'd heard her thoughts, he placed a tender kiss on her temple and whispered “I love you, Molly. _God_ , I love you so much.” She could tell he was close - his rhythm was wavering, his arms and upper body trembling, his eyes firmly shut. 

“I'm yours, Sherlock. Yours and yours alone,” she replied with the same hushed reverence. 

They moved together, skin slick with perspiration, edging towards the precipice. Molly flexed her internal muscles, gripping his cock tightly, relishing in the choked gasp he let out before losing all semblance of control. Sherlock held himself up on one forearm, gripping her hip with his free hand before sliding it under her ass, encouraging Molly to meet his thrusts. 

“Oh, oh _yes_ ,” she moaned, feeling her release wash over her just as Sherlock stiffened, following right after her. 

They lay there afterwards, catching their breath in between stealing kisses, Molly trailing her fingers down Sherlock’s back. “It’s a pity we didn’t book the room for longer,” she said, looking up at him. “We could’ve stayed here another two days before heading back home. I wonder if they’d let us keep the room.”

“I’ve already beat you to it,” he replied, pulling back to hold himself above her.

“And?” she asked excitedly. “Can we keep it?”

He seemed uncomfortable for a moment, as if he were warring internally with his answer. “I didn’t ask Campbell's,” he confessed. “I’ve booked us a room at Crossbasket Castle.”

Molly blinked a few times, waiting for her brain to catch up with her ears. “A castle. You’ve booked us a room at a _castle_?” At his hesitant nod - for a brilliant man, he could be thick sometimes - Molly squealed and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. 

“Thank you,” she said, reaching up to press her lips to his. “You’re amazing, Sherlock.”

He smiled back at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I'm relieved you like idea. I was a little afraid you might have been upset that I hadn't consulted with you first.”

“That's the point of a surprise, silly,” she reminded him gently. “Now, though, we need to get some sleep. I don't know about you, but all this pretending to be twenty years younger and walking all over the city has tired me out.”

Sherlock rolled onto his side, lying down beside her. “Are you sure that's the only thing that's exhausted you?”

Molly chuckled despite her fatigue. “ _Maybe_ our extracurricular activities had something to do with it.”

Pressing a kiss to her forehead, her nose and then her lips, he gathered her against his side. “Goodnight, Molly.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” she replied, as sleep overtook her and her dreams filled with images of castles and dashing princes with brilliant blue eyes and dark curly hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Campbell’s Guest House as it appears in my story is from my imagination. If there really is a Campbell’s Guest House in Scotland, it’s purely coincidental!  
> As always, feedback is welcome and greatly appreciated. It sure helps feed my muse!


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